


Fort Dearborn

by seleneheart



Category: due South
Genre: Blanket Permission, Chicago (City), Community: ds_flashfiction, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Role Playing, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Angst, Post-Call of the Wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22528867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seleneheart/pseuds/seleneheart
Summary: Fraser figures out where his home really is
Relationships: Benton Fraser/Ray Kowalski
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	Fort Dearborn

“Kowalski!”

“Yeah, Lieu?”

“Get in here.”

Wondering what has gotten Welsh in such a tizzy, Ray enters the office and shuts the door.

“Kowalski, it pains me when other precincts call me to deal with their problems, but in this case, it’s probably warranted.”

“What is?” Ray asks, wishing Welsh would get to the point and the source of his apparent aggravation. Ray tries to think of what he might have done recently to upset other police precincts but he can’t recall anything.

“The one-nine has been getting reports of a man in red imitating a statue at the corner of Michigan and Wacker. Now, my understanding is that since Sergeant Fraser’s promotion and assumption of new duties, he was no longer on sentry duty. Not to mention that location is far, far from the bounds of the Canadian Consulate’s purview. Would you happen to know what your Mountie is doing there?”

“Not precisely, sir, no,” Ray temporizes, trying to sort through everything Welsh has just said, including the whole ‘your Mountie’ bit that, while true, is unnerving to hear from a superior officer.

“Kowalski,” Welsh says, rubbing his head.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m on the way,” Ray responds, pulling his car keys out of his pocket.

He decides that he won’t wrestle with trying to park anywhere close to Michigan Avenue, which is a tourist nightmare this time of year. If the 19th is getting them involved, they can damn give up a parking spot for the GTO while he goes to find Fraser.

As he makes his way south on Michigan from the one-nine, dodging the hordes of people on the sidewalks, Ray tries to think what Ben could possibly be doing out this way. He’d seemed fine when they’d parted ways that morning, nothing out of the ordinary. Ray can’t imagine what could have happened to Fraser in the few hours since breakfast.

When he walks across the bridge over the Chicago River, he can see the figure dressed in red standing on the southeast corner of the intersection. Fraser does indeed look like he’s standing sentry, his hat on as straight as possible, straighter than straight, in a way that Ray has learned to identify as Fraser at his most Canadian. And definitely Fraser upset about something.

He crosses the street and stands beside the Mountie, trying to figure out what’s going on. “Sergeant Fraser,” he says in greeting.

“Detective Kowalski.”

“What’s up?”

Fraser points to the sidewalk a few feet in front of them. “That.”

Ray squints at the plaque and the brass lines embedded in the concrete. “Fort Dearborn.” He vaguely remembers learning about it in one of his elementary history classes.

“I was tasked with delivering an announcement of the consulate’s upcoming activities to the Chicago Tribune,” Fraser says, gesturing to the tall building just north of their position. “As it is a lovely day, and the humidity is much lower than is normal for this time of year. Perhaps due to the presence of the large lake to the east, Chicago’s humidity can be. . .”

“Fraser!” Ray interrupts. “Skip the weather report, and get to the point.”

“I decided to walk to the Tribune building.”

“Okaaay?”

“Whilst waiting to cross with the light, I heard some tourists commenting on Fort Dearborn. And pointing out the outlines of the fort embedded in the street.”

Ray is desperately trying to remember his childhood lessons as to why Fort Dearborn is significant enough to get Fraser in such a twist. But he comes up completely blank.

“So you’ve been standing here for hours because . . .?”

“Fort Dearborn was destroyed, first by flood, then by fire. And now it lies buried under asphalt.”

“You’re what? Having an existential crisis about some old lost fort?”

“That isn’t the point, Ray!”

Ray rubs his eyes under his glasses. “I know, Ben. Help me understand, okay, buddy?”

Fraser lowers his shoulders, as close to slumping as he ever gets. “I’ve never noticed it before. I’ve walked over that bridge many times and never noticed.”

Gesturing from the ornate bridge to the river to the Art Deco buildings to all the people, Ray says, “Well, there’s a lot to take in here.”

“But tourists notice things like this. Natives don’t!”

“Are you upset because you aren’t a tourist?” Ray is starting to get a glimmer of an idea of what’s bothering his lover.

Fraser rubs his eyebrow.

“I ain’t the sharpest about vocabulary and definitions of things, but I think you can’t be a tourist someplace you work. You’ve had a job here for years.”

With a bitter laugh, Fraser says, “Right you are, Ray.”

Certain that his hunch is correct, Ray says, “Let’s go home and talk about this.”

“Home. Indeed.”

As he herds his partner through the the sidewalks back to the 19th Precinct to get the car, Ray ponders how to get his willfully obtuse lover to admit what the actual problem is. If Ray’s correct in his guess.

Fraser is quiet in the car, but he doesn’t object when Ray lets go of the wheel and entwines their fingers. They are silent as they enter the house. Dief rolls over lazily in greeting and Fraser scratches his ruff absently. Ray plucks the Stetson off of Ben’s head and places it on its proper hook. He’d do more to strip his partner, but he doesn’t want the conversation veering off course, and Fraser is an expert at bait and switch, especially when he uses Ray’s own lust against him to avoid difficult conversations.

“Let’s sit outside,” he suggests instead, pulling a beer out of the fridge. Fraser shakes his head when Ray offers him one, but follows him onto the deck without comment.

Ray leans back in the chair. Ben’s right; it’s a gorgeous day in the old town. He basks in the sun for a moment or two before turning his attention to the task at hand.

“Okay, I think I got this worked out, but you gotta let me know if I’m barking up the right tree here.”

“Wrong,” Ben says.”

“What?”

He waves his hand. “Never mind. Continue, Ray.”

“I’m following clues and what I’m getting is that you’re scared you’ve gone native. That you ain’t Canadian anymore.”

Fraser looks pissy and like he’s about to explode. Ray grabs his hand.

“I’m not laughing at you. Just tryin’ to understand. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ben sighs.

“You’re afraid that if Chicago is your home, then the Northwest Areas aren’t anymore?”

“I’m aware that that is a ridiculous supposition, Ray,” Ben says. “But it just hit me. Out of the blue, one might say.”

“Well, you’re dead wrong. Chicago isn’t your home and I’ll prove it to ya.”

“Go on.”

“Okay, so hypothetically, if I took a job someplace else, say Seattle, would you stay in Chicago?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ray. Of course not. I’d get a transfer to Seattle or at worst, Vancouver.”

“Because of me.”

“Certainly. Where you go, I go.”

“See?” Ray crows. “Chicago isn’t your home. I am.”

Fraser pauses and ponders the idea. “I find that I am quite satisfied with that conclusion, Ray.”

Ray laughs, low and happy, delighted that Ben agrees with him. Fraser stands up and pulls him into a full-body hug, the kind where all their parts match up. Which soon leads to a kiss that starts out slow and comforting, but quickly morphs into fast and dirty.

Because he has to get the last word in, Ray pulls back and says, “We could go play tourists sometime, if you really wanted, Frase. Walk along the river and gawk.”

“I’d rather play the lonely lumberjack and the randy fur trader right now, if it’s all the same to you, Ray.”

“Uh, sure,” Ray says. “Yeah, fuck, that’s one of my favs.”

He shoves Ben into the house before things can get out of hand.

~~~

_“Fuck, Ben. Yes. Please. More.”_


End file.
